There in the two end carriages countless executions took place at the command of Szamuelly, who sat at the fragile desk in the parlour-coach. At his word his captives were butchered, and their bodies flung through the windows, so that the railway tracks of Hungary during the days of the Red Terror were littered with naked corpses. With a shuddering gasp, which even he could not altogether restrain, Wenzel turned his attention to the Terrorists themselves, who strolled along the down track, glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs. In a sense they were uniformed, not only in costume but in face. Most of them wore Army service uniforms, some with puttees, others wore their trousers loose, but every one boasted the voluminous, heavy overcoat and fatigue cap. It was their features where the similarity was mostly to be glimpsed, not in actual likeness, but in the same degenerate cast, in the same surly, lowering glance, in the same cruel, tightened lips, and receding forehead. Only one stood out conspicuously. Wenzel had a good view of him as he stood still, right in a path of light. He was a Jew, of small stature, dressed in black, with leggings. He was different. His hair, crinkly, curled, was not shaven to the scalp like the majority of the others. His forehead was high, and apparently intellectual, his eyes open and fearless. The lower part of his face was covered with a beard, but it was carefully trimmed, and that, with his heavy moustache, gave him a handsome appearance. Wenzel would have believed him a prisoner of the brutes who surrounded him, but, even as the White Knight was watching, one of the Terrorists called to the Jew, and the name he cried was "Kohn-Kerekes." Kohn-Kerekes! Szamuelly's favourite hangman! The man who once had an argument with Gustav Nick, a freed murderer and Terrorist, as to whether it were possible to hang two or three men within the space of five minutes! This, then, was the trainload of murderers who were on their way to Bira to put down the counter-revolution. Something seemed to tighten around Wenzel's heart at the mere thought. Somehow he must delay them, hold them back long enough for Arnold to get to Bira and warn the rebels of Szamuelly's approach. Yet how? The engine was left unguarded, the engine-driver and his mate having joined their fellow-Terrorists. Wenzel's eyes flared with suggestion. He knew nothing of engines, yet he felt confident that if he could but work his will on the levers, the handles, and all the different controls, he was bound to do some damage or other. He made up his mind to attempt the feat, but firstly he realized that it would be necessary to cross the line and approach the engine from the other side. As far as he could see, all the Terrorists were on the down track, some seated on the rails, some walking up and down, so that, to judge from appearances, the farther side was apparently unprotected.